


Tête-à-Tête

by Reading Redhead (readingredhead)



Category: Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Innuendo, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-10
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readingredhead/pseuds/Reading%20Redhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(n.) A face-to-face meeting, or private conversation between two people, usually in an intimate setting; a head-to-head. Also, a bench or sofa that allows two people to talk face-to-face.</p><p>The betrothal contract allowed for one-on-one meetings between the parties involved, but Miril's pretty sure this isn't what their parents had in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tête-à-Tête

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Araine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Araine/gifts).



> This story relies on the Wellakh-related headcanon I developed while writing [Ladies of the Lands of the Sun](http://archiveofourown.org/works/223469), but you don't need to read that story to understand this one. All you need to know is that Miril and Nelaid are betrothed and secretly working together to try and take down an organization responsible for having several of their family members assassinated.

Miril tightened her grip on her knife before lunging at the figure who hunkered down in a defensive crouch before her, being careful not to bang her shin against the corner of the low table that separated them. She was fast, but her opponent was faster, darting to one side so quickly that Miril nearly ran straight through the ornate paper screen that cordoned off a corner of the visiting room. As it was, the hem of her skirts swished into it as she turned, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the partition wobble, once, before steadying itself.

"It'd be a shame if a work of art that survived the Burning was destroyed by an graceless _girl_ ," Nelaid taunted, rounding the table to face her.

With a grim smile, Miril wondered whether their families had imagined that the one-on-one visits outlined in the betrothal contract would be put to such use.

" _You_ try fighting in skirts!" she complained, thankful that her mother had at least allowed her to wear reasonable shoes. Miril's blasted skirts were so long, it was impossible the prince would ever _see_ her comfortably worn-down ankle boots. When she was queen, she would have to see about starting a trend towards sensible ladies' fashions.

 _When she was queen_. The thought sent a shiver down her spine as usual. It was a good thing Miril had plenty of time between now and then to adjust to the notion -- and to take down the organization that had killed her older sister, and Nelaid's younger brother.

She distracted herself from the seriousness of her thoughts by jumping up onto the table and rushing across it, straight at Nelaid, who took a step back in surprise and caught his heel on the corner of an ornate rug. It wasn't enough to make him fall, but he lost his balance, and Miril seized the opportunity, launching herself off the edge of the table and straight at him.

They hit the ground together in a tussle of arms and legs. Miril heard Nelaid grunt -- and, even more satisfying, she heard the skitter-shriek of his knife as it slid out of his hand and across the marble floor. She angled her own knife for the base of his throat, pinning him with her left forearm across his neck and her knees on his thighs. "Gotcha," she panted, allowing herself to smile. She felt powerful like this, satisfyingly in control of something for once.

Miril saw a flash of something in Nelaid's eyes, and the next thing she knew, she was the one on her back, with a bump on the back of her head that would be tender for days. Nelaid held both her hands above her head, rendering her weapon useless, and used his greater weight to pin her lower body to the floor. Miril squirmed a few times, refusing to meet Nelaid's gaze, and suddenly fighting an urge to blush as the utter indecency of their situation sank in. Her skirts were hiked up past her knees, her hair was coming loose, and Nelaid was just a little too close for comfort. She would never let him know any of that. After all, whether she liked it or not, they were betrothed, so ultimately _nothing_ that they did would be indecent. But it still made Miril strangely queasy.

She did not look at Nelaid again until he released her arms and rolled off of her. "You're improving," he said, sitting up beside her.

"I'd improve faster if my mother would concede that private training in this sort of thing might be useful for a future queen," Miril grumbled, pulling herself up to a seated position and trying to ignore the aches and pains that were already starting to make themselves heard. She was convinced that Nelaid was only capable of besting her in hand-to-hand combat because, while she had grown up learning which fork to use and at what angle to curtsy, _he_ had had a number of personal trainers to instruct him in everything from wizardry to knife-fighting.

"But you would also blow our cover," Nelaid said.

Miril growled in frustration. He was right, of course. That only made her like him less.

He stood up in one fluid motion, not even wincing, though Miril saw the muscles of his jaw tighten and took some comfort in the knowledge that he was hurting, too. He paused and held out a hand to her, but Miril ignored it, doing her best to stand on her own steam and managing a few unsteady steps before sinking down onto the only piece of furniture in this particular room that had been made for sitting on.

It was a cushioned bench the length of a typical sofa, but it had an arm that curled in an S shape, dividing the bench into two seats facing each other over a central railing. Miril had heard other girls at the palace call these everything from courting benches to kissing couches. To her, it was mostly an uncomfortable reminder of what everyone _thought_ she and her betrothed might be doing behind closed doors -- and what she could not quite get her head around _ever_ doing, especially not with _him_. They shared a cause. Surely that was more important than sharing a bed.

Nelaid sank into the seat opposite her. "All things considered, I'd say it's a good thing these walls are thick," he said. "Wouldn't want the servants to get the wrong idea." He leaned back against the arm of the couch and offered her a wry smile.

Something in that look made Miril's stomach flutter -- a feeling equal parts discomfort and pleasure -- but she clamped down on it before it could go any further and make her say or feel something incredibly stupid. "Oh, I agree," she said, doing her best to maintain a neutral expression. "We certainly wouldn't want anyone to think we were in _love_."

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, I did not make up ["kissing couches."]() They were apparently quite popular in Victorian times. It seems logical enough to me that a society as keen on rules and politeness as Wellakh's nobility appears to be might develop a similar piece of furniture.


End file.
